Carole Smith

I have been attending my Christian Writing/Editing Group bi-weekly for roughly two years now.   For the same amount of time I have been slowly but surely chipping away on my first book, a Memoir.   Some of the chapters are extremely telling and memories that I don’t really want to remember let alone share with others.    But they are my stories and they need to be told… so the reader can know me, relate to me and hopefully heal with me.   I read one of those uncomfortable chapters last week aloud in my group.   Chapter 3 - which should give you a pretty good idea about how long I have been holding this one back.   I have been waiting until I feel safe.   I have been waiting to see if my writing is “good enough”.   I have been waiting for someone to tell me to stop writing because it’s not good, so I don’t have to read the hard ones.   But this hasn’t happened.   So I keep writing, I keep attending and I keep reading. Today as I sit down to go over my edits and colleagues re

Sunday may have been my personal proverbial five minutes of fame .   It was wonderful.   It was exhilarating.   It was nerve-wracking.   It was addicting.   And now it is over. I feel incomplete. Like something is missing. Empty. I am Empty. This troubles me, so I muse.   I analyze.   I dig around, within myself, to find a root.   To extract it.   Completely.   Like a weed, so that it will not spread.   So that it will not choke-out the good that I have planted.   Nurtured, painstakingly, until I saw the first blooms.   My garden is fragile.   Temperamental.   I must always keep a steady eye and ready hand upon the first shoots of a weed. So I dig.   I think back upon this experience.   It began a little over three months ago.   February 9 th , to be exact.   The moment I read the non-conspicuous call for local writers to audition for a reading of their personal story on motherhood.   I wasn’t expecting the invitation, which made it even more delightful; spontaneous.

Being at my father's bedside the last three days before he passed in September 2010 had a huge emotional, mental, spiritual and creative impact on me. I got to witness the mental peace of his transition from this life to the next, as well as his body's physical struggle to remain here with us. I have some of the most vivid sensory memories of my life burned into my being from these days, which have resulted in the birth of very personal poetry and stories... many have yet to be released from within me. My dad loved football. He played it, he coached it and when he was no longer able to do either of those, he Refereed it. As a little girl, I was enamoured with my father and his role as a Ref.  Because I did not get to see him very often due to my parent's divorce, a lot of things about my father held deep mystery and awe for me. His home was somewhat of a magical place for me, as he had rooms that had names for the color of it's shag carpet. The poem below,

  " Surrender yourself to the Lord , and wait patiently for him." Psalm 37:7 (GW)     Grip… Don’t let go. Grip… Can’t let go. Grip… It’s mine. Grip… It’s me . Grip Rip Tare Fear Hold-tight…Too-tight Grip Grab Squeeze. Cling-Stuck Grip Grab On-top, Smother Breath. … need to breath. Tired Let go …Just a little… Grip loosens. Grip undone. Grip Gone. Release-Sweet Tender-free Be free Set it free Let it be L et me be. Whatever you are holding onto so tightly …May be the thing that is holding you back. Let go of your grip. Surrender. Be free.   "It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery." Galatians 5:1 NIV by ~Carole A. Smith